


Counter-offer

by kjollar



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Will Graham, Canon Divergence, Dark Will Graham, Gen, M/M, Murder Husbands in the making, alternate season 2 finale, murder fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjollar/pseuds/kjollar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will knows beyond a shadow of doubt that he is not just a plaything anymore – got elevated from that status a long time ago – so the real question now is this: <i>is his pride or morality worth choosing of two sides that betrayed him the one that only wants to use him instead of the one that yearns to accept him?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've got this wildly unoriginal idea of reimagining _Mizumono_. There are slight deviations from previous episodes – mainly that Alana is not privy to Jack and Will’s plan – with a little handwaving about parts of the timeline that I’m uncertain about.  
>  This story is going to be relatively short, but I feel that I need a little moral support in writing it lest I get distracted, so comments and kudos will be greatly appreciated.

“Hello?”

Hannibal’s tone is light and unconcerned, if a bit distracted, and Will is suddenly able to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and softly breath out, his lips forming Hannibal’s name without conscious prompting.

Until he heard that familiar, accented voice Will was certain of what he was about to say: a simple warning, short as he could make it, to afford as much time as possible for Hannibal to flee the confrontation that had gotten wildly out of control. If it was ever controlled at all, which suddenly seemed a laughable delusion – was there ever anything in Will Graham’s life that he had command over?

But now, feeling the self-assured presence enveloping him through sound alone, Will hesitates.

He had little opportunity to think about consequences after receiving news of his imminent arrest, only to react as swiftly as he could, jumping in the car and using back roads to evade a small fleet of police cars closing in on his home. If he concentrates, he can still hear the shrill screech of sirens in the distance and can vividly imagine his home being ransacked for evidence of his alleged crimes. Good thing that he’s moved all that’s remained of Randal Tier out of his shed after the unfortunate encounter with Miss Lounds.

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal’s voice returns him to the reality of a bumpy road that winds through the forest and the unfair absurdity of his position. Hunted for a crime of trying to catch a killer – the universe is probably still undecided if it is more or less funny than going to BSHCI for _being_ the killer he’d tired to catch.

Of course, if there was anyone with half a brain in Kade Prunell’s employ, they would have simply gone to Dr. Lecter’s house instead of chasing their tails in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Or maybe madam investigator just hopes that the recalcitrant agent and his pet psycho will still be able to pull off their plan while she covers the Bureau’s collective ass with a hastily issued arrest warrant. Certainly, saving face is much higher on her priority list than saving innocent lives; not that she is alone in this attitude – Jack has most certainly long forgotten any noble purpose he had for catching the Chesapeake Ripper together with the notion that he can do something himself instead of barking orders and venting frustrations on his subordinates (when he’s not sending them to prison).

“Will?” Hannibal prompts, sounding just a little bit concerned with continued silence.

“I’m an idiot,” Will says, as much to himself as in response to the psychiatrist’s earlier question.

“Is that a general statement or does it pertain to anything in particular?” comes an amused query.

“Both?”

It is surprisingly easy to fill his words with humor instead of despair or weary resignation, the familiar cadence of Hannibal’s voice relaxing Will against all protests of reason and conscience.

It’s an hour’s drive from Baltimore to Wolf Trap – the time usually spent painstakingly reassembling Will Graham the Bureau’s loyal, if not altogether official, agent on the mission of capturing the most dangerous serial killer of their time. Will is routinely thorough and careful in reconstructing the standard system of moral values, reminding himself that his only source of enjoyment should come from doing the right thing (and, if he is a little bit lax with restrictions, from the thought that he is bringing justice for all of Chesapeake Ripper’s victims, and that means for himself as well) and cautioning himself that he must not find amusement in Hannibal’s notions of divine retribution or be charmed by his subtle compliments.

Funny, how less than a minute is necessary to get into the mindset of Will Graham the unpredictable creature that had emerged from Hannibal’s carefully crafted chrysalis. It almost begs the question of _who is the real one?_

Hannibal has an answer to that, and Will – theoretically – has one as well; today’s dinner was supposed to be about determining which one of them is right; but now Will feels as if he can no longer sustain his careful balancing act, having irrevocably lost his sense of equilibrium.

He’s too distracted by his thoughts to properly watch the road and an unseen bump almost makes him drop the phone, which results in awkward fumbling and cursing under his breath. Through it all Hannibal waits patiently on the other end of the line, with none of the standard psychiatric fare of ‘ _what prompted such criticism of yourself_ ’s and ‘ _why do you feel that way_ ’s. He undoubtedly wants to know what’s going on, but expects Will to get to the point at his own pace. For once, Will would have preferred some leading questions, because he’s still undecided – _tries to persuade himself he’s unsure_ – of what’s to be done now that the meager safety net he had is torn to sheds.

It will be so easy to fall into the bitter comfort of blaming everything on Hannibal. He’s done it so often in the recent weeks; his righteous fury kept him warm in the bowels of the asylum and sustained him through the trials of double life. But it rings hollow now, used to often to reign _himself_ in when the dark part of Will that resonated with Hannibal tried to get a foothold in his mind and soul.

After all, should the catalyst be blamed for the entirety of the chemical reaction? Yes, it gives the final push, but all the reagents, all the potential has already been there, simmering beneath the surface and waiting for the opportunity to explode (and the irony of tapping into the darkness that Hannibal wanted him to embrace in order to prove the esteemed doctor ultimately wrong is not lost on Will). But even more importantly, despite his initial intentions Hannibal was not able to remain unaffected – the trap he’s willingly stepped into is the best proof of that. Will knows beyond a shadow of doubt that he is not just a plaything anymore – got elevated from that status a long time ago – so the real question now is this: _is his pride or morality worth choosing of two sides that betrayed him the one that only wants to use him instead of the one that yearns to accept him?_

Will smiles darkly, almost feeling the antlers bursting out of his spine.

“You’ve asked me to run away with you, without confronting Jack.”

“And you refused,” there is an undertone of resigned finality in Hannibal’s words that sparkles the beginnings of a revelation at the back of Will’s mind, but it’s not as important as what he plans to say next.

“I have a counter-offer for you: how about we don’t run at all?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading and leaving kudos and comments. It's wonderfully motivating! (And I hope to continue hearing from you)  
> Here's the next chapter with a little bit of canon-divergence concerning Freddie.

“That is quite an unexpected proposal. Can I ask what brought it on?”

Will loves how Hannibal never outwardly hesitates, even when confronted with something he couldn’t have predicted. There is no stutter to his speech, no pauses for picking out the right words – he sounds for all the world like sudden about-turns in dinner and murder plans do not phase him at all.

For a moment, Will contemplates spinning his story in such a way that his real – or, at least, more probable – allegiance does not become immediately apparent. Hannibal has trusted his accounts of Jack’s actions so far, and it won’t be a stretch to claim that sight of the finishing line’s got him impatient enough to move things a little ahead of schedule; there is also no apparent need to mention the police on Will’s own tail.

The dirt road finally leaves the woods and as soon as car’s wheels touch the highway Will steps on the gas.

“Matters got complicated on my end,” he says, ignoring that cowardly part of him that longs for a path of least resistance, “there is a warrant out on charges of entrapment and violation of personal rights for me and Jack both. I believe he’d be going to your house as soon as he makes sure he’s not followed by the cops; you should expect him in half an hour or so.”

“I see.” There is, once again, no surprise in Hannibal’s voice, and Will is not so naïve as to think that the good doctor hasn’t grasped all the implications. “And where will _you_ be when Jack comes?”

He knows.

Will barks out a strangled laugh. Of course he knows, it should have been obvious right at the moment when he proposed they elope like two young lovers wishing to shed all obligations of their pasts and start a new, glorious life together. Will remembers being stunned for a moment by that association and then scrambling to parse out the meaning behind it. He thought it was a test designed to gauge his resolve in confronting Jack and all that he represented, and answered accordingly, but Hannibal then spoke of forgiveness and truth, and looking back Will can only wonder at his own blindness. And then – marvel at Hannibal’s willingness to turn a blind eye on a betrayal not yet committed but clearly designed.

“Sorry, I’m going to be a little late for dinner,” he answers almost flippantly. “How long have you known?”

“Since the night when we burned my patients’ records,” comes an unhesitating reply.

“For three days then. Good,” the last word emerges with vicious satisfaction, and that, finally, gives Hannibal pause.

“Was this to be another one of your even-Stevens?” he asks after some seconds of silence, “A reflection and antithesis of what’s been done to you?”

“Not consciously,” Will mutters musingly, “although now that I think about it, our betrayals do have a certain grotesque symmetry to them. But there is no getting even in this, is there?” he continues in the next breath. “Threats of death are easy and almost amusing, even exhilarating at their highest points; breach of trust—” he shakes his head, unseen by his listener, “—not so much, no matter what you made yourself believe that evening. Running away wouldn’t have worked – none of us would’ve been able to ignore the elephant in the room forever.”

“As opposed to the present situation, where you are compelled to confess by outside forces, knowing that your deception will be revealed shortly regardless of your actions,” Hannibal suggests, all professional detachment.

“As opposed to the present situation,” Will parrots back, “where I am compelled to re-examine my motivations and admit that I wouldn’t have been able to go through with the deception anyway. Perhaps I should thank outside forces for making me see this before the ultimate moment of truth in your kitchen. You know, running away sounds more tempting then ever now,” he smiles wistfully, “only not for the _running away_ part of it.” It is, perhaps, the closest he can come to explaining how he feels, clumsy as his delivery is.

There is a near inaudible sigh on the other end of the line.

“What is your plan, Will?”

Will grins with a vicious satisfaction of an entirely different kind and tells him.

He’s a little sorry he can’t see Hannibal’s face – there is a certain hint-of-a-smile expression the doctor wears sometimes when he observes him that Will would have loved to see (has loved to catch in the moments when Hannibal was pleased with something he’d said or done). He’s sure there is one now on Hannibal’s lips, but his silence is not a good enough medium to convey it fully.

But all the drama hasn’t robbed Dr. Lecter of his own ability to surprise. “And what of Miss Lounds?” he asks when Will finishes his explanation.

“How did you know?” the question slips out, tinted with admiration, before he can stop himself.

“You smelled of her.” Hannibal doesn’t need to specify when exactly he’d caught that whiff.

“I should have just worn a bio-hazard suit when dealing with Freddie,” Will scowls, and continues briskly: “She’s kept at a safe-house, very unofficial and very remote – Jack intended to keep any hint of her continued existence secret, which, by the way, also means no connection to the outside world. Despite her bravado, she’s frightened enough,” _I managed to frighten her enough, even though she pretended to believe I was on the right side of the law,_ “to stay hidden. She knows about the dinner, but she was warned that it may be several days before we’d be able to come get her. I’ll take care of Freddie before she grows too fidgety.”

There is a pointed pause.

“Will you, now?”

“Should I apologize for the subpar quality of the meat I’ve delivered previously?” Will asks waspishly.

“Only if you can manage a sincere apology,” Hannibal’s tone is distinctly fond now, in direct contradiction with the skepticism of a moment before. “Trust is a troublesome thing, don’t you agree? Once you’ve given it, you’re loath to take it back, no matter the evidence.”

There is a red light on an intersection, and when the car’s engine quiets down Will can faintly hear a rhythmic _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_ in the silence of their joint contemplation.

“What are you doing?” he asks, half-curious and half-incredulous in advance.

“Chopping the herbs,” Hannibal replies nonchalantly, and the incongruity of the Chesapeake Ripper continuing to cook all though their talk of betrayal and pre-mediated murder makes Will a little bit giddy.

“What are we having for dinner?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“And we won’t even get to actually eat it, more’s the pity. Do you think it can be preserved for later? You can feed me while visiting me in prison, for old time’s sake.”

“Shouldn’t that be _you_ visiting _me_ on my sickbed?”

“Whoever gets out of their predicament first, then,” Will concludes their absurd exchange, feeling calm and light as air. “Be careful, Hannibal,” he smiles, “I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're not too disappointed that I hadn't revealed Will's new plan, but I just don't want to explain beforehand that which will be described in action right in the next chapter. Which, by the way, will most probably be in Hannibal's POV, so stay tuned :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kudos and comments! It warms me to know that you enjoy my story and like my ideas (not to mention, motivates me to write further).

The pantry, Hannibal reflects, is an almost ideal place to barricade oneself in. It is spacious enough no not feel cramped, and there’s even a convenient icebox one can use to block the door. Still, even if the pantry gives immediate safety, it is not strategically sound to lock oneself in a place with no alternative exit.

But, strangely enough, that’s exactly where he finds himself after his brief altercation with Jack Crawford.

Well, in the interests of objectivity it should be mentioned that there actually _is_ an escape route, Hannibal amends, sliding his gaze to the floorboards that conceal entry to the basement. For him, the objection lies in not using this way out in favor of trusting a man who has confessed to laying elaborate plans to betray and entrap him. What would have dear Bedelia said had she witnessed such a lapse in judgment? Would she mock him for pulling his person suit so close to his skin as to contract its petty emotions? Or would she laugh at the hubris of the monster lurking underneath, believing that his pull over Will Graham is the strongest force that guides his plaything turned playmate?

Another shudder of the pantry’s door turns Hannibal’s lips up in a sardonic smile. Jack should have already realized that he can’t force it open, but he is confused now that his plan lays in ruins and Hannibal himself hasn’t reacted as he’d expected him to. Jack can no longer enshroud his actions in legality of capturing the Chesapeake Ripper, so his only remaining course of action is outright murder – and he is desperate to commit it before someone comes to stop him. Hannibal would have laughed, but he is seized by his own kind of desperation, so perhaps he would use his mirth better laughing at himself. At any previous moment of his life he was sure of how to act, even when decisions tasted bitter and left him hollowed out; now – he hesitates.

The ancient Greeks were right, hope truly is the greatest evil in the world.

His contemplation is interrupted by the very thing he’s been patiently waiting for. There are cautious steps behind the door and Will’s voice asking “Jack?” with a curious amount of surprise.

“Will!” Jack is too relieved to be suspicious. “Finally! I was beginning to think they’d got to you.”

“What are you doing, Jack?” the question is decidedly wary now.

Hannibal closes his eyes and imagines the tableau: agent Crawford, disheveled and bloody, very probably armed with a knife after uselessly emptying his clip into the pantry’s door, and opposite him Will Graham, watchful and cautious, gun at the ready.

“What are _you_ doing?” Jack explodes. “Put the damn gun down and let’s finish this once and for all!”

“Are you even hearing yourself? You’re proposing cold-blooded murder!” there is horrified exasperation now, and Hannibal finds himself able to picture Will’s expression perfectly, having been on the receiving end of it for a number of times. It’s a crying shame he can’t see Jack’s though.

“So that’s how it is,” the man rumbles angrily, voice steadily rising. “When you said you’d do what needs to be done, _this_ is what you’d meant? After all he’d done?”

“Please, calm down. We can still fix— No, Jack! Stop!”

There are three gunshots in quick succession, and a moment of perfect silence afterwards.

Then Will frantically bangs on the pantry’s door. “Dr. Lecter! Are you all right? Can you hear me?”— and, not waiting for a reply —“I think he’s locked himself in the pantry, but he’s not answering me!” A pause. “No, I can’t open it.” Another one. “Yes, of course I’ll stay here and keep trying. Please come quickly!”

The next knock on his door sounds bizarrely polite. “Hannibal, how badly are you hurt?” Will asks with only a very faint echo of panic in his voice. “I’ve ended the call but the EMTs are already on their way here, so we don’t have much time.”

_“It is imperative that you look like a perfectly innocent victim. You were attacked unexpectedly, in your own home, by a man you’d worked closely with and had considered a friend. You are capable and inventive enough to save your life, but you are not trained to take down an FBI agent singlehandedly. That means more or less clumsy use of weapons of opportunity and defensive wounds.”_

Hannibal has already taken stock of his injuries: a bullet-scraped shoulder, several lacerations on the arms, broken ribs, mild concussion and swollen strangulation marks on the throat, so he can truthfully answer, “I am relatively fine. And how is Uncle Jack?”

“Not fine at all,” comes a muttered reply. “Requires a bit of adjustment to look like he’d actually moved to attack me before I shot him.”

Hannibal feels like something just loosened in his chest, and he is sure it has nothing to do with broken ribs. He closes his eyes and smiles.

_“It was already proven that I can take care of myself.”_

_“Oh, yes, Tobias Budge, who had accidentally knocked down a statuette that conveniently fell on the exactly right place to kill him instantly. You know, at first I’d been so worried about you, then I was angry that you’d sent me to Budge knowing what he was, and now I’m just sorry I hadn’t seen the fight. But anyway, the point is – you’ve made it look like an accident; it will be suspicious if you catch such a lucky break twice. You are a psychiatrist, I am a trained agent allowed to carry a gun – can you guess which scenario will raise more questions?”_

_“It occurs to me that my studiously pretending to be the victim will also make Jack’s work easier. We don’t even know how long I’ll have to evade him before you arrive.”_

_“Well, I don’t have your skills in winding others up and watching them dance to your tune, so you can as easily do whatever you think is best. Or, you can use your cunning to preserve your life and make it look like you’ve had to work for it. I have every confidence in you.” ___

“Were you on the phone the whole time?” Hannibal asks, when sounds from behind the door indicate that Will is busy with positioning the body.

“Of course. I called 911 as soon as I noticed signs of forced entry,” Will replies in the tone of a concerned, law-abiding citizen. “I’d even named myself and described what I was going to do.”

“Not ‘kill my boss’, I hope?”

That earns him a somewhat nervous chuckle. “No, ‘enter and check out the situation’. I have extensive experience in that, after all.”

“And now you have a recorded account of the confrontation,” Hannibal concludes approvingly. “Everything meets your approval then?”

“It is as I’ve designed.”

Hannibal savors the satisfaction. “Does it make you feel powerful?”

“Immensely.” There is a very soft _thump_ and he imagines Will pressing his forehead to the door. “And exposed for everyone to see.”

“Do not fear,” he soothes. “No-one will be able to perceive your brilliance.”

His beautiful monster huffs out a laugh. “Flatterer.”

Hannibal feels that in a moment warm elation will bubble out of him in a flood of extravagant praise, but Will suddenly whispers, “The ambulance and police are here – better get back to playing almost dead. And remember, whoever gets out first, brings the other one food.”

Hannibal’s only regret in the ensuing commotion is that he doesn’t get even a glimpse of Will when the pantry’s door is eventually forced open. The police is aware of the warrant for agent Graham, and they take him away over his – not too vigorous, in keeping with the character – protests that he wants to at least know that Dr. Lecter isn’t dead.

The sight of a decidedly dead Jack Crawford is a small consolation. The thought that only technicalities remain before he reunites with Will is a much larger one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did you like a pantry-centric role reversal? :)  
> I hope Will's plan is clear enough from the actions and dialogue flashbacks, but our favorite murder husbands will also be discussing it a bit more in the next chapter.  
> Also, I'm anxious to have them finally meet face to face after only talking through phones and doors for the first three chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for appreciating my work! Special thanks to those who comment regularly - it's a wonderful incentive to write more :)

It appears that hardly anyone can grasp the importance of rest in the ‘rest and recuperation’ process that is supposed to help patients regain their health more quickly and easily. In fact, Hannibal’s next day in the hospital is almost as busy with visitors as his regular day of psychiatric practice.

The police questions him first thing in the morning, a detective Simmons taking his statement with moderately compassionate attitude and nodding along his explanations that manage to stay truthful through a bit of clever wordplay. Hannibal doesn’t expect this to be the last time, though – regular police just means that madam Prurnell is currently too busy with a more promising target to waste her time on an obvious victim.

His lawyer is next, with a report on the state of investigation and a promise to not let it rest until the FBI compensates him handsomely for all the trauma he’s suffered. The thought is an interesting one – Hannibal certainly appreciates the irony of government paying the Chesapeake Ripper for its inability to catch him fairly – but he is more pleased to hear that his house is no longer considered a crime scene and a cleaning crew has already been contracted to deal with the mess left by agent Crawford (both before and after his death).

Alana, who comes next, is not entirely unexpected, but at this point Hannibal finds himself a bit weary of guests (or, rather, a bit petulantly disappointed that none of them are the one he actually wants to see), so he doesn’t make much of an attempt to make her feel comfortable or, indeed, welcome. It would have been a wasted effort anyway: although Jack clearly hadn’t explained the entirety of their plans to her, she was already paranoid after all the strange happenings of the last weeks and Jack’s death did nothing to put her mind at ease.

There is, of course, some amusement value in seeing how unsure she is about the reasons behind last night’s attack and even its outcome when not so long ago she was his greatest champion and the staunchest advocate of his innocence.

They both go through the standard script of a bed-side visit of a concerned lover, but Alana talks more of her incredulity over Jack’s breakdown than of Hannibal’s health, and keeps careful distance citing concern over his broken ribs. He, in turn, doesn’t try to either capitalize on his misery or excuse agent Crawford’s behavior. There is no more need to influence her or manipulate her into staying close; she is a friend only to his outer shell, and now that he has secured the company of a fellow monster, he finds himself progressively more uninterested in maintaining meaningful relationships with anyone else.

By the end of the visit Alana is obviously frustrated with her inability to pick up any clues from his perfectly indifferent façade. Hannibal expects that her confusion will not spur her into action though, but will instead make her distance herself from the situation entirely: ignorance tends to become quite appealing when its opposite is a potentially ugly truth about two persons closest to you.

“Don’t you find it strange,” she asks almost from the door, “that it is Will who’s saved you now when no so long ago he’d sent someone to kill you?”

“I distinctly remember Will telling you that we’d resolved our differences,” Hannibal answers with gentle reproach. “I find his actions the best proof of that.”

“Only, he’s under arrest for more than killing Jack, and his other charges involve actions _against_ you.”

“I have no doubt that everything will be cleared up shortly,” he smiles a little painfully – a subtle reminder that his condition makes long talks difficult and only politeness prevents him from sending Alana away. “It is not the first time Will has been falsely accused, is it?”

She opens her mouth to object – probably something along the lines of ‘yes, and he claimed that in was _you_ who’d framed him’ – but only shakes her head instead before wishing him speedy recovery and leaving the room.

Hannibal contemplates their talk all through lunch – not out of some profound need but simply as a way to take his mind off the travesty that is hospital food. It is obvious that their affair has reached its end, and since a psychiatrist wouldn’t be worth the paper his diploma is printed on if he didn’t pick up on that fact, Dr. Lecter vaguely hopes that Alana will not feel the need to have it affirmed directly. In other circumstances, he’s sure, any one of them who decided to end their relationship wouldn’t be so cowardly as to rely on non-verbal clues, but he would rather skip all the ‘I’m sorry but I can’t be with you because I suspect you’re a serial killer’ talk and the necessity of playing injured, but understanding innocence. After all, his best performance of this role was already bestowed on a more deserving audience.

The highlight of his day comes in the afternoon, but sadly only in the form of a phone call.

“Dr. Lecter!” greets the long-awaited voice. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to reach you through the cell phone. How are you?”

“As good as expected after the night I’ve had,” he replies, unconcerned by Will’s odd formality. He can make an educated guess as to why Will needs to appear relatively distant and is willing to play along, to an extent. “My phone was retrieved for me this morning; and you are by far not the first patient to enquire after my wellbeing.”

His suppositions are confirmed when Will answers that with, “But I’m sure I’m the first one to call from an interrogation room,” with a dash of cheekiness that belies his previous coolness.

“Are you wasting your phone call to check up on me?”

“Not… entirely,” Will corrects. “You have a lawyer, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And a damn good one, I’d bet.”

“Why would you think that?” Hannibal asks with a smile.

“Well, in your line of work…” Will makes a small suggestive pause, “you must have no trouble gauging their talents and abilities,” he concludes innocently.

“If you feel that you need legal representation, I’ll be happy to arrange it. But tell me, how does your situation look at the moment?” Hannibal is honestly curious and, uncharacteristically, finds no patience in himself to wait for their face-to-face meeting to find out more.

“So far everyone finds the situation highly unproductive,” judging by the calm compliance with the request, it is beneficial for Will to give an explicit answer. Hannibal imagines that their supposedly confidential conversation is, in reality, closely monitored by the FBI, which presents a wonderful opportunity to indirectly make some useful points. “I’ve refused all attempts at interrogation without a lawyer and my phone call, and they’ve only just now relented on that.”

“Why ask for my lawyer, then? What about the one you’ve had for your trial?” Hannibal muses. “I thought he’d done a good job.”

“Did you?” there’s a trace of humor in the question. “Anyway, I had only _one_ phone call so I had to prioritize. Also, if the case goes to trial it will most probably be me and you against the FBI so it’s easier to have the same counselor.”

“I see. But weren’t there charges for questionable actions against me? Might there be a conflict of interest?”

“Hopefully, there won’t be, and the matter is resolved quietly out of court. I’ve had a pleasure of experiencing Kade Prurnell’s approach to solving such conflicts,” Will adds. “I was her scapegoat last time – part of the reason I want a lawyer with me is to witness any statements similar to one she’d made during our meeting in BSHCI – but this time she has an even better one. Jack Crawford, so obviously obsessed with capturing the Chesapeake Ripper that he’d flouted regulations several times before; add to that the stress of his wife’s deteriorating health and it’s easy to see how after Chilton’s capture he wouldn’t be able to accept that the chase was over and he’d have nothing more to distract him from the reality of Bella’s impending death.”

“Quite an astute assessment,” Hannibal agrees approvingly. “Actually, I’d hoped that the dinner would provide an adequate diversion but, to my shame, I wasn’t able to predict his oncoming psychotic break.”

They spend some moments in silence, ostensibly mourning the loss of their mutual friend.

“Anyway,” Will continues after enough time has passed, “they don’t have any concrete proof that I was a willing accomplice in Jack’s schemes,” meaning, all agreements were strictly verbal and all details kept off record, “and, on the other hand, there are precedents of him pressuring me into doing things that were not, strictly speaking, beneficial to my physical and mental health.”

“Yes, Uncle Jack was known to use your ‘better nature’ against you.”

“I detect a hint of contempt in your description, doctor,” there is once again a note of playfulness in Will’s tone. “If not _better nature_ , what was it?”

“In my experience, people who routinely put others’ lives and wellbeing before their own are plagued by doubts over their own worth.”

“That’s a sad view of heroism,” Will mutters, and then adds quieter still, “What do _you_ think of my worth?”

“Your worth is unquestionable, dear Will,” Hannibal assures, “and your wellbeing is very important to me.”

Will sighs almost inaudibly. “What can and will be questioned is our doctor/patient relationship.”

Hannibal blinks at the non sequitur and then, seeing the implications beneath the obvious warning, he breaths, “Oh, you beautiful, amazing creature!”

A little embarrassed stutter can be heard over the line.

No-one is completely innocent – that is the truth known to any member of law enforcement, and the more tenacious ones can dig and dig until they eventually manage to find the evidence. But if you _have_ to be guilty, it has better be of something completely unrelated to the crime you’re accused of. It is not hard to uncover Will suspiciously frequent visits to Hannibal’s house of late, but illicit affair with his therapist is a much more obvious explanation than conspiracy to provoke said therapist into committing murder. Current conversation, where Will vacillates between forced decorum and familiarity, is further proof of that.

Hannibal can stand being accused of unprofessional conduit; it can also allay some of Alana’s worst fears – supposed infidelity will explain some of the strange behavior and the rest of it will be pushed to the darkest corners of her mind.

“Well,” Will says after clearing his throat, “I still hope that we can settle this quietly, and that’s the other reason I want a lawyer with me – to witness and check over any preliminary agreement we come to. If all goes well, I’ll be out of here in the evening.”

Yes, if the eavesdroppers are clever enough to pick up on the dropped leads, explanations and threats, Kade Prurnell will see that it’s in her best interests to pin everything on Jack Crawford, conveniently dead and therefore unable to dispute any accusations, and leave Will Graham, who has already been falsely imprisoned once and is fully prepared to fight back, alone.

Meanwhile, Hannibal can privately delight in Will’s masterfully spun veil that distorts the vision just enough to make them both look like victims and cast Jack in the role of a misguided villain. It is a deception on par with Hannibal’s own; even subtler in some aspects, since only people’s perceptions are manipulated instead of people themselves.

“I want to see you,” Hannibal finds himself saying, raw honesty in his voice.

“Tomorrow.”

It is a promise, despite a token hesitancy in the tone.

He firmly tells himself that tomorrow is close enough to wait for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than previous ones, and I still hadn't made it to the promised face-to-face meeting. I'm sorry for that and hope you'll be patient with me :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for your feedback and encouragement!
> 
> Here's some murderous fluff for you wonderful readers :)

Will comes on the next day, as promised.

Sadly, his is not the first visit – that honor belongs to a grim-faced agent Layerton with the FBI, who hadn’t worked with agent Crawford very closely but had obviously studied under him in the glory days when Uncle Jack actually deserved the moniker of ‘Guru’. Thus, the death of his mentor is of greater importance to him than some psychiatrist’s continued survival, which is clearly reflected in his sour face and pointed questions. It appears that Will’s hints took root, since most of his enquires consist of poorly veiled digs at Dr. Lecter’s relationship with the FBI’s very own special agent with a knack for monsters.

Naturally, Hannibal enjoys every moment of the interrogation – there is not much in his life he loves more than verbal games – but this time there is an added thrill of helping bring Will’s design to life. It feels, despite all Hannibal’s previous knowledge, like catching a glimpse of the monster behind the shield of black-rimmed glasses for the very first time. Perhaps, Hannibal muses, it is because Will’s plans are no longer constrained by the shape expressly constructed to please Hannibal’s taste for macabre dramatics.

Will’s own brushstrokes are light and elegant, coloring within the basic lines of human awareness, guiding the unsuspecting gaze with subtle variations of hue and tone. Hannibal thinks of his own scalpel-sharpened pencils, and fondly imagines the art they’ll create together.

His wandering attention hardly endears him to agent Layerton, but the greater part of his irritation is clearly derived from Hannibal’s refusal to incriminate himself in anything. On the other hand, the psychiatrist doesn’t go to trouble of denying that his relationship with this particular patient is closer than with any other, to their mutual benefit (it can hardly be disputed that a little breach of ethics is preferable to gruesome death that would have undoubtedly awaited Hannibal if not for his ‘suspiciously close’ relationship with his savior).

After the interrogation is over, Hannibal amuses himself for a bit with choosing an appropriate dish for the occasion, and eventually stops on _Magret de Canard Sauce Cerises_ with a rich red port wine demi-glace sauce to offset the agent’s tastelessness. Not that he’d get a chance to make it – at least not in the immediate future.

But then Will comes, and his attention is much more pleasantly engaged.

Will is tired – it’s obvious in the way that he carries himself, in his slowed steps and dark smudges under his eyes. And yet Hannibal greets him with, “You look radiant, dear Will,” because despite it all he has a self-satisfied look of a man who’d successfully played a trick on the universe and is now privately basking in his own glory. Considering the events of last two days, Hannibal thinks that is entirely deserved. He doesn’t even try to hold back an answering smile.

“Really?” Will himself appears skeptical of the assessment. “I was expecting a description more alone the lines of ‘something a cat dragged in’”.

“Now, why would I say that?” Hannibal chides lightly. Will just shrugs with one shoulder and busies himself with wheeling a table closer to the bed and rummaging in this bag. When he finally puts an old, banged-up thermos before Hannibal, there’s a new layer of smugness over his self-satisfaction.

“I brought you chicken soup,” he declares proudly and takes off the cap which doubles up as a bowl. There is a stopper underneath with an indent for a folded iron spoon. “Sorry for the lack of presentation,” Will continues, not even trying for sincerity. “I’m usually using this when fishing in winter.”

Hannibal debates telling him that he’s unbearably cute in his deliberate mockery of Hannibal’s own bedside visits, but ultimately decides to appreciate the spectacle silently.

“Also, I wouldn’t know where to find those black Chinese chicken… things,” Will adds, “so it’s plain American chicken there.” There is also no medicinal value in the soup that’s poured into the makeshift bowl – it is a simple broth with bits of carrots, onions and noodles. And, of course, chunks of chicken which Hannibal studies questioningly before lifting his eyes to Will. “I mean, it’s actual chicken,” he reiterates, “no pun intended.”

Hannibal remembers all the previous times when the topic of _unique_ ingredients came up in their conversations, how quietly solemn Will had always sounded, and compares them to the immediate reality of twitching lips and teasing eyes. It’s amazing, in hindsight, that he was too dazzled by his own performance to notice that Will had been only playing to his expectations.

The soup is a bit bland and overcooked. “It’s delicious,” Hannibal mutters, “thank you.”

“Flatterer,” Will shoots back, but he still sounds quite pleased with himself.

They talk of mundane things while Hannibal eats. Will describes Kade Prurnell’s further attempts at interrogation, thoroughly and repeatedly thwarted by Will’s new lawyer, and his answering threats of suing for libel, defamation of character and wrongful imprisonment. There is also, apparently, a very good chance of getting a substantial compensation for moral damages – not that Will is interested in monetary aspect of the claim. Hannibal agrees that it will be good for the FBI to finally admit to all the wrongs they’d done by Will, and Will laughingly asks is they should also send them a card saying ‘sorry we can’t capture killers for shit’ while they’re at it.

They also discuss Hannibal’s practice, which has to be put on hold for the time being, and Will’s dogs, who luckily didn’t have time to miss their master while he’d been held in custody. Will seems pleased that their lives are miraculously intact after all the upheaval of the last days, and Hannibal doesn’t bother to remind him of the unsustainability of their supposed codependency.

By the time the bowl is empty, Will’s fatigue wins over the nervous energy that had carried him through the last twenty four hours: his words are slurring slightly, his eyelids are drooping and he looks like he can nod off any second now. It is, Hannibal decides, a perfect moment to test new boundaries of their understanding.

“How long since you’ve last slept, Will?” he prods gently.

“Hmm,” Will frowns, “I don’t know. Three days? But I napped for a bit in the holding cell.”

“Come here then,” Hannibal suggests, shuffling to the very edge of his bed and patting invitingly on the – admittedly not very wide – stretch of a sheet.

“You must be joking,” Will’s expressive eyebrows reflect his confusion perfectly. “There isn’t enough space…”

‘ _If that is your only objection_ ’, Hannibal thinks, “Come here anyway.”

And, to his delight, Will does, leaving his jacket on the hospital chair. He lays on his side, legs bent so his feet are dangling from the edge, and curls slightly with his head pressed to Hannibal’s shoulder. There is, unsurprisingly, not a hint of worry for Hannibal’s broken ribs.

“You want to know what happened to Freddie,” Will states quietly.

“I do.” No reason to lie about that.

“But you’re not going to ask.”

“I expect you’ll tell me in your own time.”

“Oh? Are we back in therapy, doctor?” Will whisper-laughs.

“Do you believe you still need it?”

Hannibal can’t tell if Will is thinking it over in silence or simply dozing off, and he is not in a hurry to know the answer, although he admits to some curiosity about the extent of Will’s self-acceptance.

“I don’t like to show off,” Will says eventually. Hannibal nods, certain that his movement will be known to the empath. “There will be no burning corpses riding wheelchairs,” he elaborates, a touch of defiance in his voice.

“My dear Will, you are a predator in your own right. I wouldn’t presume to dictate your style,” Hannibal assures. He is quite tempted to turn his head and place a kiss on the unruly curls, but it will send the wrong message at the moment: an equal doesn’t need a blessing, after all.

“I’ve let her run out of the safe house. Let her think that she got away, for a little while. When I caught up to her, I gave her an interview.”

Hannibal lets out a surprised chuckle. “Was she in the mood for it?”

“There’s something to be said for Freddie’s morbid curiosity. She also kind of vaguely hoped for catching my confession on tape and then somehow delivering it to the authorities. It’s almost a pity I had to destroy the recorder afterwards – some of her questions were very insightful.”  
There’s a flare of sudden jealousy in Hannibal’s chest at the thought that _Freddie Lounds_ had a more intimate knowledge of Will’s thoughts, even if her role was only that of a sounding board.

“She was planning to call us murder husbands in her next article,” Will adds with a chuckle. “Can you imagine?”

“Tacky,” he comments.

“Fortunately, we’ll now be able to avoid that particular indignity.”

‘ _What did you do to her?_ ’ Hannibal burns to ask, because it is of paramount importance to know that Ms. Lounds has taken all the secrets Will had bestowed upon her to her grave.

“In the end, I put my hand over her mouth and smothered her,” Will answers his unvoiced question, and there it is again, the understated elegance of his design, unencumbered by outside influence. “I don’t want to eat her; she’s probably poisonous.”

Hannibal is a bit disappointed – he had entertained a fanciful hope of eating Will’s mysteries right out of her – but he isn’t going to dispute what’s over and done with.

The room is once more suffused with silence, and Hannibal’s hand slowly finds its way to Will’s hair, fingers lightly playing with soft curls.

The body next to his relaxes by increments, although it is unclear if it is due to newfound trust or simple exhaustion.

“Where you going to kill me?” Will mutters dreamily.

“No,” the reply is gentle but unhesitating.

“Out of mercy, or out of cruelty?”

“I simply didn’t want to imagine a world without you,” which, Hannibal knows, is not a real answer, but Will seems to be content with it.

“I’ve thought a lot about what you’d said; the symmetry of our betrayal. I know how I’ve hurt you, and I know that you would have found a way to hurt me back. And no matter what I’ve told myself, the truth of things is that I, too, can’t bear to kill you. It could’ve so easily devolved into a never-ending, vicious circle.”

Hannibal thinks of a scar on a twice-dead girl’s throat. “I’m glad that it’s not in our future anymore.”

“I feel that you have an advantage over me,” Will speaks again after another pause. It appears that their unconventionally intimate position grants him the ability to express his thoughts more freely. “I may have been able to deceive you, but you still know that I was not an impartial actor in a staged performance, whereas I will always remember that the foundation of my own feelings is built on a lie,” there is so much resigned pain in his voice that Hannibal feels its echo in his own chest.

“My sweet Will, you must never doubt that my interest in you was genuine.”

“Yes, an interest in a new toy, maybe.”

“An interest in a potential partner,” Hannibal corrects him firmly. “There was so much potential in you I couldn’t close my eyes to, even if there was no way to unlock it gently. Meanwhile, I’d shown you as much of myself as you were able to accept at the time.”

“Oh, we’re airing the tried and true ‘I’ve done it for your own good’ now?” Will snorts. “I had a perfectly normal life before you, you know. I didn’t suffer over my squandered potential.”

“But were you happy in that life?”

“I was content.”

“Then why did you agree to work for Uncle Jack? With or without me he would have acted the same. I’m sure you can predict the outcome of that partnership.”

“Yes. But instead Jack gave me a paddle that eventually brought me to a waterfall.”

“You never needed a paddle, Will,” Hannibal insists. “You only needed to see that you can withstand any current perfectly well, standing on your own two feet.”

“And if not, I would have simply drowned, sparing you the effort of killing me yourself,” Will continues brazenly.

He is right, of course; there is no point denying that the only alternative of passing Hannibal’s tests was death. “I promised I won’t lie to you,” Hannibal reminds him instead. “I’ve done it for both of us, and I can’t regret the outcome, but hurting you was never my intention.”

“It was just an unavoidable side-effect,” Will elaborates for him. “Sadly, I believe that.”

“Can you say the same for yourself?” Hannibal prods further, and Will, after a moment of contemplation, unexpectedly laughs.

“I refuse to feel guilty. And I already know that I can’t hurt you without hurting myself at the same time.”

Yes, there is no need for guilt in their world and no reason anymore to be at odds with each other.

“You can do anything you want,” he says, because absolute freedom is exactly what he wished for Will from the very beginning. “I encourage you to.”

“Well then…” Will shifts imperceptibly closer, and his hand stretches over Hannibal’s waist, squeezing without jolting his ribs, “I want to forgive you. And so I shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally, our boys see each other again. Hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (especially the cuddly bits).
> 
> Also, I feel that Will's own brand of crazy (considering his empathy) leans more to the mind-fuckery with the victims while they're alive than displaying their corpses in creatively-artistic ways. Hopefully, that thought is clear in this chapter, and I may explore it more closely further on.  
> Meanwhile, next chapter will finally deal with the Abigail-is-alive situation. Stay tuned!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'd like to reiterate how much I appreciate you readling my story, and leaving kudos and comments :) Thank you all so much!
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for my brain that once again insisted on drawing out an originally short scene for an entire chapter, so there's no Abigail yet, but a little bit more of fluff. It's a fair exchange, right?

Will has no desire to move for the foreseeable future, and possibly – ever at all. It’s not even because his body is almost too tired to even breathe, its’ just… everything is so calm and peaceful for once that he’s loath to do anything that can upset the balance.

He still thinks about all the things that should – and were expected to – bother him in the wake of two murders committed in cold blood, although the rumination is as slow and lethargic as the rest of him. The guilt, the remorse, the horror – he vividly remembers them all from the times past, and that was when he only _thought_ that he’d killed someone. Shouldn’t it be worse after the actual fact? When he’d been driving to Baltimore two nights ago, he believed that it would, had wrapped the future deaths in terms of necessity and inevitability and told himself that he’d get through them by delving into a mind of someone who was much more at ease with the concept.

Hannibal’s mind.

Will’s recollections slide seamlessly to another night from the past, with Mason Verger feeding Will’s dogs his own face in the corner of the living room and Hannibal watching with an indulgent half-smile. It was the first time Will saw the monster at work, without the barrier of a swinging pendulum between them; it was also one of the more profound gifts of trust given in exchange for a carefully crafted lie (paradoxically, there is guilt for the deception itself where none remains for the deaths; on the other hand, that particular lie turned out to be hiding much more than a grain of truth).

That night Will couldn’t help but compare his murderous guest to a cat playing with his dinner – not because he needed to exhaust his prey before finishing it off, not out of some grudge against it and not even because of a particularly cruel nature. The cat just never had an inkling of thought that his _food_ should be afforded any courtesy or pity, so he toyed with it to pass the time and work up an appetite.

Will remembers that night as one of many times he’d been unwillingly charmed instead of revolted. Will also remembers his own quietly strangled envy. As he had been getting closer to Hannibal’s house and the final confrontation with Jack Crawford, there’d been, perhaps, some anticipation mixed in with the dread because deep down he’d wanted to experience that enviable ease.

It’s almost a pity he didn’t need it in the end.

Looking back now, he can almost see the last vestiges of the old Will Graham, desperately trying to fit the norms of society and terrified of admitting that it wouldn’t have him anyway, falling off with every step he took up to the porch and along the corridor. By the time he entered the kitchen, he was shrouded in a new sense of power; he had no more use for being someone else while killing Jack. Moreover, he didn’t _want_ to be anyone but himself – or else he wouldn’t be able to experience the familiar sense of righteousness that suffused him when he pulled the trigger on the man who had wronged him.

And that was the crux of the matter: doing bad things to bad people felt good, as always – only now Will wasn’t restricted by any outside rule that dictated _who_ should be considered bad.

Now, only his own opinion mattered.

There was no more need to feel guilty or afraid; instead he could enjoy the omnipotence that came from indulging his brand of vengeance, from giving his victims what was their due. A double-crossing for a man who’d thrown him to the wolves but expected him to stay at his side anyway; a chase with no escape for the woman who had been endlessly harassing him with no fear of consequences. His was not the playful battering of Hannibal’s paws, nor the savagery of Randal Tier’s fangs, nor the mockery or reverence of any other killer he’d immersed himself in – it was the design purely of his own making.

Hannibal would probably say that his righteousness was a reflection of God’s wrath. _Are we not created in his image?_

“Wake up, Will,” the voice, echoes of which were just whispering inside his head, pulls him from his meandering thoughts.

“I’m not sleeping,” he mumbles and sighs contentedly when Hannibal’s fingers playfully tug at his hair before resuming their petting (Will feels a certain kinship to his dogs – or, at least, a better understanding of their eagerness to have his hands on their heads and ears).

“What are you doing then?”

“Contemplating your similarities to a cat,” Will smiles to himself hearing the barely-there exhale of a laugh overhead.

“That must severely hurt my chances for you affection, considering your love of dogs.”

“Don’t worry, you can be an exception,” he reassures, and then adds— “as in all other things,” —in afterthought, which earns him another brush of Hannibal’s fingers.

“There is a scheduled check-up in fifteen minutes,” Hannibal says with a hint of regret, “and we must not incur the nurse’s wrath by overstepping the boundaries of propriety.”

“Is that a flowery way of saying that you want your bed to yourself?”

Since the question is largely rhetorical, Will doesn’t wait for confirmation before gingerly getting up – and honestly, he can hardly believe that he not only managed not to fall from the narrow space, but felt quite comfortable lying there. The sense of calm, against his fears, remains with him even when he straightens up and turns to look at Hannibal who, in turn, regards him with an admiring expression.

He is going to object that his rumpled appearance and tangled hair don’t merit such a close scrutiny when Hannibal says, “I don’t think you should drive all the way back to Wolf Trap in your condition: it will be a shame if you aren’t able to enjoy the fruit of your triumphs due to a traffic accident.”

“Trust me, I’ve been known to drive in worse states, some of those induced by you,” Will shrugs into his jacket and turns to put the empty thermos back into his bag.

“You can as easily stay at my house tonight,” Hannibal continues, entirely disregarding the snide observation, “since it is so much closer and already free of any evidence of the recent events.”

Will frowns. “You just want to keep me near, don’t you?”

“Is it bad?” the faux-innocent expression once again reminds Will of a cat, who obviously can’t imagine that anything he does can possibly merit disapproval.

There is a whole list of reasons why staying in his psychiatrist’s house while still being investigated for the murder of an FBI agent (that happened in the very same house) is indeed very bad for Will, but Hannibal – damn him – doesn’t actually ask about that. The only thing that interests him is if Will has any personal objections to staying at his home.

The answer to that question is a ‘no’.

Will knows that very soon he will have to put his newly emerged self behind a society-friendly mask and at least outwardly conform to its boundaries; but for now the freedom is still too enticing to restrict it by such paltry concerns. And Will _wants_ to go to the monster’s lair and feel its welcome, wants to claim it as his own – because _that_ is what Hannibal is actually offering.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll find your secret torture chamber?” he asks just as innocently.

“Wherever would I hide it?”

Will needs only a second of thought. “In the pantry.” Because Hannibal wouldn’t have locked himself anywhere without a way out.

“You see me so well, my dear Will,” Hannibal almost purrs in satisfaction. “You are, of course, invited to explore to your heart’s content.”

“Now you’ve gone and stolen all the fun out of it,” Will grumbles, although in reality he hardly has the energy to run around secret tunnels at the moment. “Guess I’ll have to wait for a guided tour instead.”

There are no things left to gather in the room and all the necessary words seem to be exchanged already, but Will still finds himself lingering by Hannibal’s bed, as if tethered by an invisible string. As he finally convinces himself that it really is time for him to go and starts to turn away, Hannibal leans forward and catches his hand with his fingers ( _the same fingers that had been carding through my hair,_ a part of his mind remarks distantly).

“Will,” he says softly and solemnly, and if Will’s attention wasn’t already thoroughly caught, he would have paused at the obvious contrast to his earlier playfulness, “thank you. You’ve given me an incomparable gift. I can only hope I’ll be able to return it in full.” Will swallows through a suddenly dry throat. He can’t even begin to guess for what he’s being thanked, only knows that it’s something more than a simple agreement to stay at Hannibal’s house for the night.  
Hannibal bows his head and places a reverent kiss on his knuckles, keeping his lips pressed to the callused skin far longer than necessary to convey any kind of gratitude, his eyes not leaving Will’s for a second. Then he turns Will’s hand and places a set of keys into his opened palm. “Drive safely,” he cautions, closing Will’s fingers over the metal, “and sleep well.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, my wonderful readers, I adore you all! :)
> 
> And here were are, finally, seeing Abigail.

Will is not surprised to see Abigail upon waking. In fact, he’s glad; the happy memories he’s created with her are not real, but they still bring a sense of calm with them that is always welcome.

Abigail is sitting on the edge of his bed (well, Hannibal’s bed, technically, since Will has gone straight for the master bedroom upon coming to his house) with a contemplative look on her face, although she jolts a little when she notices Will opening his eyes.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she murmurs, as if hoping that a soft voice will help him go back to sleep.

“That’s all right,” Will replies with a slight smile and makes a valiant effort to get into a more upright position without shifting too much on the – admittedly, very comfortable – bed. “I shouldn’t sleep the day away in any case.”

“A little bit late for that,” she chuckles, nodding to the window, where the last watery-blue light of sunset is filtering though sheer curtains. “And, frankly, you look like you need all the sleep you can get.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Will grins, and then shakes his head reflexively, remembering Hannibal’s first words upon seeing him. ‘Radiant’ indeed.

Abigail’s answering smile is unsure, and it quickly reverts back to the contemplative and slightly troubled expression from earlier.

“Everything’s over now, right?” She asks hesitantly. “The FBI won’t be coming for us anymore?”

“They can try,” Will shrugs with a confidence he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of just a few short days ago, “but they have nothing solid. At the moment I’m more concerned for Hannibal’s injuries.” Which, to be honest, is not much of a concern as well – Will has seen Hannibal shrug off and impromptu crucifixion-slash-hanging-slash-bloodletting like it was nothing, so a few cuts and a mild concussion are almost laughable. He had probably stayed in hospital only for the promised bedside visit. (The memory of it fills Will with a pleasantly cozy warmth now; all remaining anger and bitterness seem to have drained out of him somewhere along the way and he is quite glad – happy even, if he permits himself to admit it – that their first memory together without any pretence between them is such a light and peaceful one. It doesn’t even register as strange that almost half of that conversation revolved around death – apparently, the topic is perfectly commonplace now and doesn’t detract from the pleasantness of the mood.)

Abigail, in contrast to Will’s good humor, is chewing her lip nervously. “Are you sure? Weren’t we supposed to run away after… umm…”

“Killing Jack?” Will supplies, since there is no real need for euphemisms anymore.

Abigail doesn’t seem to welcome the bluntness; she frowns and turns her head away, ostensibly looking out of the window. Her hair, pulled in a messy ponytail, shifts, revealing an edge of a scar in place of the ear.

Will freezes, caught between the two opposite impulses – to scoot as far back as possible or to dart forward and touch. This… this simply cannot be.

“Y-you’re real?” he finally presses through numb lips.

“What?” Abigail’s head snaps back and her frown deepens even further. “What kind of question is that?”

Apparently, a kind of question you don’t ask a girl who turned out not to be a figment of your imagination. Will hardly dares to breathe, his mind going thousand different directions at once – reassembling the evidence, reassessing motives, revisiting conversations, scourging his memory for any hint of this revelation in Hannibal’s gestures or hidden meaning of his words.

 _You’ve given me an incomparable gift. I can only hope I’ll be able to return it in full_.

This _is_ the gift. Hannibal didn’t mean some present in the distant future, he’d already prepared it. It was waiting for Will long before he decided which side he was on.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, covering his mouth with a hand, and swallows thickly. If he’d chosen differently… If he’d gone with his original impulse… For a moment, blood spraying from a slit throat is more real that Abigail herself.

“Are you all right?” the girl is moving tentatively closer, her hand hovering indecisively but not yet touching his duvet-covered knee. “What’s going on?”

The pendulum swings madly, superimposing the imaginary splatters of blood with the photos from the place of Abigail’s supposed death, then erasing them and placing Hannibal and Abigail in the center of the kitchen, entwined in a parody of murder. Hannibal looks at him and says, “Here’s your reward for being a good boy, Will.”

The pendulum swings once more. “I don’t intend do take everything from you,” Hannibal smiles up at him from the desk in his office. “This is not a codependency, there can be other people in your life.”

“If those people can be molded to your purpose,” Will throws back. “If those people can be used to manipulate me.”

“Where manipulation ends and sincerity begins? She is important to you, so I give her back. Like you’ve given me back our future together.”

_You’ve given me an incomparable gift._

Will’s eyes prickle; he blinks hard to hold back tears.

“Sorry,” he croaks, “I thought you were… part of a dream.” He doesn’t want to alarm her further trying to explain his stream and all the times he’d talked to her there.

It’s enough. With a small ‘oh’ of understanding Abigail exhales and then, to Will’s surprised delight, launches forward to hug him tightly. “I thought he’d told you,” she whispers into his ear, “and that’s why you were so calm. I thought you’re mad at me,” she adds in a small voice.

“No, no, of course not!” he squeezes her back just as strongly, hardly believing his senses that are full of her warmth, and smell and sound.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs anyway, “I didn’t know what else to do, so I just…”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry, everything will be fine now,” Will soothes and then continues with a quiet litany of promises meant for both of them in equal measure.

When they let each other go, Abigail’s smile is finally free of doubts. “Do you want to eat?” she asks, sweeping the last traces of tears from her cheeks. “I’ve brought pizza,” she adds with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Absolutely,” Will agrees with gusto. “In an act of vicious revenge, we’re going to defile Hannibal’s sanctuary with sacrilegious fast-food.” Abigail giggles and nods vigorously. “I’ll go reheat it and put a kettle on,” she says, getting up from the bed.

Will watches her go and for a moment debates calling Hannibal. Unsurprisingly, he can’t even begin to imagine what exactly he’s going to say, and so chooses instead to get out of bed, put his clothes back and freshen up a bit in the en-suite before going down to look for Abigail (he’s still not entirely sure it isn’t all a dream he’s going to wake up from any moment now).

The kitchen in Hannibal’s house isn’t designed for eating, but they make do with a couple of chairs pulled to the isle, grabbing pizza from the box and putting tea leaves straight into their cups (Will would have actually preferred instant coffee, if he had any hope of finding such a plebeian item in the cupboards). There’s a companionable silence for most of the meal, but after a while Abigail returns to the things that still bother her.

“I’m sorry,” she says into her cup. “I should have trusted you more.” There is a subtle emphasis on ‘you’ that tells Will everything he wants to know about her insight into Hannibal’s actions.

“Well, there really wasn’t much you could have done differently,” he shrugs, meaning ‘ _Hannibal wouldn’t have let you stray from the path he’d outlined for you_.’

“You believed I was dead.” This, too, is an apology, although Will could argue that she’s not the one who should be giving it.

“You did what you had to. You’re a smart girl, you know what needs to be done to stay alive.”

“Even when it hurts other people?” they both understand that they’re speaking about more than the recent deception.

“And why should others’ lives be placed first?” he shoots back, remembering Hannibal’s take on heroism. “Let them take care of their own survival.”

“Is that what you plan to do too? Survive him?”

That brings him up short. He’d been surviving for the last three months, enduring the BSHCI and then the trials of his double-life, constantly telling himself that it was something that just _had to be done_ if he wanted to retain his life and sanity. Now, for the first time in a long while – it feels like the first time in his whole life – he intends to simply enjoy living.

But for Abigail, there were no life-changing circumstances, no revelations about her nature – she still stayed in a limbo of knowing her life would be forfeit if she acted out of turn. She looked to him now as an accomplice in a subtle struggle, the one who had more influence over their mutual captor and thus could offer some protection; it could be disastrous if she believed that he, instead, had become another person she must appease by playing a certain role.

Will sighs. “We don’t have to restrict ourselves to surviving,” he finally says, hoping that using plural form will help put her mind at ease. Judging from the skeptical look he receives, he’s not altogether successful.

“You really believe he’d let us do whatever we want?”

‘ _Better not go with plural this time_ ’ Will snarks to himself. His own desires aren’t really the current topic of discussion anyway.

“What _do_ you want to do?” he asks instead.

“Maybe I want to go to college,” she throws back instantly, which tells a lot about how much thought she’s put into the possibility of such a conversation. Will, in turn, is struck by a different consideration: for all the depths of feeling for the girl sitting next to him, he knows pathetically little about most common aspects of her life.

“Do you have any preference? What field are you going to specialize in?” he asks, honestly curious.

And this is, finally, the correct reaction – Abigail pauses for a few seconds, accepting that she will not be rebuked and adjusting to the shift in mood, and then starts talking, a bit haltingly at first but with growing enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter wasn't too confusing in the distinction between real and imaginary bits, as well as bits that Will thinks are imaginary at the beginning but then realizes are real :)
> 
> There's not much left of a story to tell - one or two chapters, probably.  
> But I'm thinking about adding an epilogue about some murder-adventure for our favorite murder husbands :)


End file.
